We’ve been tracking Shawn Sutherland for almost two hours when
the blizzard strikes. That’s the common phrasing. A storm hits. A blizzard strikes. Like a left hook out of nowhere. Except that’s not how it
usually happens. There’s always warning. The wind picks up. The sky
darkens. At the very least, you sense a weight in the air. When the
snow starts, you might curse at the suddenness of it, but you know it
wasn’t sudden at all.
This blizzard is different. Deputy Will Anders and I are roaring
along on our snowmobiles, following a clear set of footprints in newly
fallen snow. I’m glad Sutherland’s prints are obvious, because it’s such
a gorgeous day, I struggle to focus on my task. The sun glitters off snow
and ice as I whip along, taking my corners a little too tight, playing
with the machine, enjoying the ride on what has become a rather routine task.
Rockton is a secret off-the-grid town, a safe haven for people in
hiding. If a resident keeps his head down and doesn’t cause trouble, we
don’t notice him. Until last month, that was Sutherland. Then the first
snow came, and he snapped, declaring that he wasn’t spending another
winter in this town. He’s run twice since then. Our boss—Sheriff Eric
Dalton—warned Sutherland that if it happened again, he would spend
the winter in the jail cell instead. Protecting citizens is our responsibility, even when it means protecting them from themselves.

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Yesterday, Dalton flew to Dawson City on a supply run and, yep,
Sutherland bolted again. But he’s too afraid of the forest to actually
leave the path, which makes him very easy to track after a light snowfall. Hell, I’d have taken the horses instead if Dalton wasn’t due back
before nightfall; I need Sutherland caught by then. Given that the sun
starts setting midafternoon, we don’t have much time.
We’re ripping along when I catch sight of a dark shape ahead. Anders doesn’t see it—he’s gawking at something to the left, and I flip up
my visor to shout at him. Then I see what he does: a wall of white. It’s
on us before I can react, a cyclone of driving snow and roaring wind,
and I hit the brakes so hard my ass shoots off the seat and nearly sends
me face-first through the windshield.
The sled’s back slides—right into a tree. I curse, but on a path this
narrow, striking a tree is damn near inevitable. I’m just lucky I wasn’t
the one hitting it.
I hear Dalton’s voice in my head. Stay on the sled. Get your bearings
first.
When I lift my leg over the seat, I hear him say, Stay on the sled,
Butler. I ignore him and twist to look around.
White. That’s all I see. Blinking against the prickle of ice pellets,
I close my visor. Even with it shut, I hear the howl of the wind, an enraged beast battering at me.
I slit my eyes, turn my face from the wind, open my visor, and shout
“Will!” but the storm devours my words. When I open my mouth to
yell again, the wind whips rock-hard ice pellets into my face, and I
slap the visor shut.
The first lick of panic darts through me, some primal voice screaming that I’m blinded and deafened, and if I don’t move, don’t do
something, I’ll die in this wasteland, buried under ice and snow.
And that’s exactly the kinda thinking that’ll get you killed, Casey.
Dalton’s voice in my head again, a laconic drawl this time. He
switches to my given name as his temper subsides, knowing all I need
is a little bit of guidance from the guy who’s spent every winter of his
life in this forest.
I take a deep breath and then try the radio. Yes, that should have
been the obvious fi rst response, but four months up here has taught

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me that our radios are about as reliable as the toy versions I used as a
kid. The second I pull off my helmet, the driving snow has me closing
my eyes, hunkering down, and blindly raising the receiver to my ear.
“Butler to base,” I say. “Anyone there?”
Static answers.
“Anders?” I say. “Will? You copy?”
I’m not surprised when silence answers. Unless his helmet is off, he
won’t hear his radio.
I squint in front of me, where he’d been only minutes ago.
He’s there. He must be. I just can’t see through this damn snow.
“Will!”
The howl of the wind responds.
I put my helmet back on and push the ignition button. As soon as
the engine fires up, I know that’s the wrong move. Anders was in front
of me. I risk bashing into his sled. Or into him.
Dalton would tell me to stay on the sled. But if Anders is doing the
same thing, maybe five feet away, we’ll freeze to death out here.
Which is why I told you not to go chasing Sutherland. Maybe if he loses a
few fingers to frostbite, that’ll teach him.
Okay, so I screwed up. Live and learn. But I need to do something,
because there’s no way in hell I can sit tight and pray this blizzard
ends before I die of exposure.
Hanging on to the handlebars, I pry my ass off the snowmobile,
fighting a wind that wants to knock me into the nearest tree. My
snowmobile suit billows, and threatens to send me airborne. The
snowsuit is militia gear, meant for guys twice my weight.
I fight my way off the sled. Gripping the seat back with one glove, I
open the saddlebags and root around until I find the rope. Then I remove my gloves, and the moment I do, I can’t feel my fingers and panic
starts anew, every cold-weather warning about exposed skin racing
back and—
As long as it’s snowing, it’s not actually that cold.
Dalton’s voice rattles off statistics about northern temperatures and
windchill and snowfall. I manage to tie the rope on the seat back. I stop
to rub my hands briskly before double-checking the knot. Then, gloves
on, I set out, hunched and hanging on to the rope, my oversized

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snowsuit snapping around me like a sail. A gust whips down from the
treetops and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my back, staring into
swirling white as I struggle to catch my breath.
Up, Butler. This isn’t the time for snow angels.
I flash Dalton a mental middle finger and roll onto my stomach.
Then I crawl, my head down against the gale.
They did not prepare me for this in police college.
Yeah, yeah. Move your ass.
I’m a hom icide detective, not a tracking hound.
Well, then, maybe you shouldn’t have tried tracking him.
I grumble and keep inching along as the rope plays out behind me.
I spot an elongated dark shape ahead. Anders’s snowmobile. I pick up
my pace, and as if in answer, the gale picks up too, snow beating from
every direction. I grit my teeth and keep going, focused on that dark
shape even as snow piles on my visor. Finally I’m there and I reach
out and—
Something grabs my hand. Grabs and yanks, and I fall with a yelp.
I look up, ready to give Anders shit, but when I wipe my visor, all I
see is the dark shape of his sled.
The wind dies, just for a second, and I hear a whining. The wind? I
spot something whizzing past right in front of me, and it takes a moment to realize I’m seeing the snowmobile track running. The sled is on
its side. The track is what “grabbed” my hand—I’d reached out and
touched it.
Sled. On its side. Still running.
I struggle to my feet and yank open my visor, yelling, “Will!” as I
stumble forward. I grab the nearest part of the sled that isn’t the running
track belt and fight that wind to get around the snowmobile. That’s
when I see the windshield. The broken windshield. And I see the tree
that the sled almost skimmed past, the left side hitting just hard enough
to stop the snowmobile dead, and Anders . . .
Anders did not stop.
There was a six foot two, brawny man riding that snowmobile,
without any restraints, and when it hit the tree, the force flung him
through that windshield into the endless white beyond.

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I stumble forward, following the trajectory from the sled, trying
to run, which only makes it worse. I’m staggering, and I can’t see a
damned thing, and then I pitch forward, tripping on what I think is
a branch or a root, and I go down, sprawled over Anders’s leg.
When I look again, all I see is that one dark spot, where I tripped
over his leg. Other wise, he’s covered in snow. Buried in it.
I find him and feel my way up until I’m at his helmet. He’s facedown, the helmet neck opening and vents snow-covered. I clear them
fast and then check the pulse in his neck. It’s beating strongly, which
only means his heart is pumping. Only means he’s alive.
I grew up in a family of doctors, and I know I shouldn’t just fl ip
Anders onto his back, but right now making sure he’s breathing is the
impor tant thing. I still try to do this with him prone. I shift position,
and my shoulder hits something hard. I reach out to feel a tree. Which
he’d hit. Headfirst.
Shit, shit, shit!
I awkwardly tie the rope around my foot, so I don’t lose my way.
Then, equally awkwardly, I dig under his helmet, my gloves off, to
unhook his chin strap—
Anders jumps as my ice-cold fingers touch his bare throat. He flails
and then scrambles to sit up, sees me, and blinks.
“Hold still,” I say as he removes his helmet. “You hit your head.”

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I take his chin in my hand, apologizing for my cold fingers, and check
his pupils. They look normal. I examine his head next, which should
be easy enough—he wears his hair buzz-cut short, as if he’s still in the
army—but dark hair over an equally dark scalp makes looking for
blood and cuts a whole lot tougher. I don’t feel any, though.
“You seem okay. I’m just worried about—”
“Intercranial injury. Yeah. Well, I’m conscious. I can recite the
Pledge of Allegiance if you like.”
“That would require me knowing the Pledge of Allegiance.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. How about Hamlet’s soliloquy.” He runs
through it.
“Impressive.”
“Not really, considering I had to say it every night for two weeks
in my ju nior year. Which was . . .” He looks up as he thinks. “June
1994. Proving I can access personal memories, too. How do my pupils
look?”
“Same size and not dilated.”
“I should be fine, then.”
Anders was pre-med when he decided to serve his country. The US
Army had started training him as a medic before they both realized
he was better suited to military policing.
The wind has died down again, falling snow entombing us in white.
I retrieve the first-aid kit and a flashlight from Anders’s saddlebags. I
shine the light up and down his snowsuit, looking for rips or tears, any
sign of injury.
“How fast were you going?” I ask.
“I hit the brakes as soon as the snow blew in. Hit them too fast. Lost
control. Skidded. Sudden stop, and I went flying. I wasn’t going more
than few miles an hour by then. Just enough to send me through the
damn windshield.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m going to be sore as hell in the
morning, but it wasn’t a high-speed impact.”
I nod. That’s the biggest concern—he could have done serious damage to his spine.
He rolls his shoulders and moves his back, testing. “I should be
good to go. How far are we from town?”

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“About five clicks.”
“Shit.”
Under normal conditions, that’s a couple hours’ walk along the
winding path. With a storm, it’ll be several times that.
I check my watch. “We’ve got less than two hours of daylight
left. If you call this daylight.” I wave at the steady snowfall, the sky
beyond already gray. “I’m going to say we collect our stuff from the
saddlebags and find shelter for the night.”
“Yeah. Eric’ll be pissed, but it’s not like he’ll be flying home in
this. With any luck, he won’t be able to radio in either.”
“We’ll start out at daybreak. Which means about, what, ten in the
morning?”
A wry smile. “Welcome to the north. Okay. Let’s see if I can stand.”
I take his hand, and he’s shaking his head, mouth opening to tell
me that helping him up isn’t a wise idea. I place his hand on a tree
instead—it can support his weight. He chuckles, and he’s carefully rising when I say, “Down!” pushing him to the ground as I cover him,
my gun drawn.
“What the—?”
I clap a hand over his mouth and gesture with my chin. There’s a
figure on the path, appearing from nowhere, just like the one I saw
before the storm hit. When Anders sees, I move off him and he fl ips
over, his gun out, gaze fi xed on the figure.
The falling snow is a shimmering veil between us, blurring everything more than an arm’s length away. I’m presuming the figure is a
man, given the size, but I’m on my stomach, and it’s at least twenty
feet away, and all I can say for sure is it’s standing on two legs.
“Shawn?” I call. With the wind dropped, my voice carries easily.
The figure doesn’t move. “Sutherland?”
“Shawn!” Anders snaps with the bark of a soldier, nothing like
his usual laid-back tone. Every time I hear it, I jump. He gives a soft
chuckle.
The figure doesn’t move. I can’t see a face, but I can tell he’s wearing
a snowsuit not unlike ours— a bulky one-piece, dark from head to
toe. According to the guy who saw Sutherland run, he was dressed in
hiking boots, jeans, a ski jacket, and Calgary Flames toque. I whisper

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this to Anders before I shout, “Jacob? Is that you?” Dalton’s younger
brother lives in these woods.
“Jacob?” I call again, and Anders stays quiet, knowing a shout from
him would send Jacob running.
“Jacob?” I say. “If that’s you, we’ve had an accident. We’re fine, but
we can’t get back to town in this weather. We need to find shelter.
Do you know of anyplace nearby?”
When he doesn’t respond, I know it’s not him. As shy as Jacob is,
he knows I’m impor tant to his brother, and he’d help me.
This might be a hostile. There are two kinds of former residents out
here, residents who left to live in the forest. Some we call settlers, which
is what Dalton’s parents were, people who moved into these Yukon
woods to live off the land. They stay out of our way, like Jacob does.
Then there are the hostiles, those who went out there, snapped, and
have become the most dangerous “animals” in these woods.
“Hey!” I call. “You know I’m talking to you. Maybe you can’t see
through this snow, but I can see enough to know you’re not holding
a gun on me. There are two trained on you, though. If you think we’re
easy prey, just raise your hand, and I’ll be happy to demonstrate my
marksmanship.”
“That means she’ll put a bullet through your damn shoulder,”
Anders calls, giving me a look that says I might need to take the diction down a notch. “That’ll be the first bullet. Her warning shot. I
don’t give warning shots. I’m not good enough for that. Mine goes
through your chest.”
Which is bullshit, on both counts. He’s a better marksman and
more likely to aim a nonfatal shot. But he’s also the big guy with the
booming voice, which makes him a helluva lot more intimidating
than me.
The figure takes a lumbering step forward. It’s more of a shamble
than a walk, and seeing that, an image flashes in my mind. Before I
can speak, Anders whispers, “Are we sure that’s a man, Case?”
No, we are not. The memory that flashed is of a walk with Dalton
after a particularly rough day. There may also have been a bottle of
tequila involved, and some hide-and-seek, the sun falling as we goofed

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off, me darting around a tree fall . . . and startling a grizzly pawing
apart the dead timber for grubs.
I’ve faced armed gunmen and not been as terrified as I was when
that beast reared up, all seven feet and seven hundred pounds of him.
Now I look at this figure through the snow veil. It’s a tall, broad shape
on two legs. Dark from head to toe. Taking another lumbering step
toward us.
I hear Dalton again, from that evening in the woods.
Don’t move. Just stay where you are.
My first instinct is to shout, as it was back then. But I’d had the
sense to whisper the idea to Dalton before I did.
It’s not a black bear. Make a lot of noise, and you’ll only antagonize it.
Speak calmly and firmly so it realizes you are human.
I do that now, but I stay stock-still. Anders does the same, both of
us straining to see, but the thing is only a dark shape against a quickly
darkening backdrop.
Just don’t move, Casey. You’re fine. I’ve got my gun out. Perfect trajectory
to the snout. That’s where you want to hit if you have to shoot.
Dalton couldn’t help turning even a stare-down with a grizzly into
a teaching moment. But the reality was that he’d been calming me.
A grizzly bear less than a meter away? No big deal. Let’s take what
we can from this. He’d also been calming himself, the strain clear in
his voice. Now, remembering his words, I adjust the angle of my gun,
whispering to Anders, “I’ll go for the upper chest. You take the head.
Just wait until we can see it. We have to be sure.”
He nods, but my warning is more for me than him. Stay calm. Be
certain before I pull the trigger. My gun isn’t meant for shooting
bears—I don’t haul around a .45.
But you know what’s even better than shooting? That canister in your pocket.
Pull it out as slowly as you can—no sudden moves.
Gun in my right hand, my left slips into my pocket and removes a
small can. Pepper spray.
The problem here is that we’re lying on the ground. There’s no
way to spray it in the bear’s eyes from this position. I’m not even sure
Anders can fire a bullet at its face with enough accuracy.

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As long as it’s upright, you’re good. It’s unbalanced on two legs. It’s just
checking you out. The trouble comes if . . .
The shape drops to all fours, and beside me, Anders lets out a hiss.
We’re both trying to make out the bear’s head, but its whole body
has turned to a dark blob. Anders backs onto his haunches, gun in one
hand, the other pushing himself to a crouch. I do the same. I know not
to leap up. Again, if it was a black bear, that’d be the right move—
show it you’re bigger. But with a grizzly, we’re not.
“I’ll spray first,” I whisper. We will give this bear a fighting chance.
That’s Dalton’s rule. He never hesitates to kill an animal if it’s a serious threat, but he won’t if he has the option.
We’re waiting for the bear to charge. That’s why it dropped to all
fours. It’s taking longer than we expect and then it rises again.
Anders makes a soft growling sound that has me nodding in agreement. The beast is toying with us. While we don’t exactly want to deal
with a charging grizzly, neither of us is good with just waiting, unable
to see enough to be sure it’s a bear, not daring to shoot if it isn’t, not
even particularly wanting to shoot if it is.
The sun is dropping farther with every second. We need to get to
shelter before nightfall, need to be sure Anders is okay after his
collision, and it’s not enough that we’re trapped by a freak blizzard,
we’re stuck in a standoff with a damned grizzly.
“Just go,” Anders mutters to the bear. “Nothing to see here. Run
along home.”
When the bear turns around and starts ambling off, I have to stifle
a snicker at Anders’s expression.
“Well, that was easy,” he says.
“Bears.” I shake my head. This was how my last grizzly stare-down
had ended, too. When that bear showed no signs of charging, Dalton
advised me to take slow steps back, and as soon as I was far enough
away, the bear snorted and returned to digging for grubs, satisfied that
I’d been suitably intimidated.
This bear is gone, but we stay crouched and watching until Anders’s
wince tells me his back didn’t escape that collision uninjured.
“I’ll stand guard,” I say. “You empty the saddlebags.”
He does. Then we head for my sled to do the same. The snowfall’s

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still heavy enough that I’m grateful for the rope, guiding me through
that endless white. As we near the spot where the bear stood, I spot
something red under a layer of new snow. I brush the snow aside and
uncover a woolen hat. A bright red, gold, and white one with a flaming C on the front.
Sutherland’s Calgary Flames toque.
I remember the figure standing here, watching us, and then bending over.
Not a bear preparing to charge.
A man, placing this on the ground.
I turn over the hat in my hands, and as I do, something dark smears
on my gray gloves. I lift one hand to my face for a better look, but even
before I catch the smell, I know what it is.
Blood.

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I clear the spot where the toque lay. More blood. I position the hat
on my hands and can see the blood is on the back. Consistent with a
blow from the rear. I shine my flashlight into the toque. There’s hair.
Light brown, like Sutherland’s. What I’m really looking for, though,
is brain matter. There’s none of that. A blow hard enough to draw
blood, but not crush the skull.
As I fold the toque, Anders points. He knows what I’ll want next
and has uncovered boot prints under a thin layer of snow, confirming we had indeed been looking at a man and not a bear.
Anders takes off one of his boots and lowers it next to the print. It’s
the same size.
“Eleven,” he says, but I know that already—we’ve done this before.
In Rockton, crime solving is decidedly low-tech.
I compare the tread and make mental notes for later.
There’s no question of going after the guy. His footprints are
already covered. Yes, that toque suggests something happened to
Sutherland, but I won’t risk our lives running pell-mell through a
darkening forest in hopes of fi nding him. Shawn Sutherland brought
this on himself. Yes, that’s a cold assessment. It’s also the same one
Anders makes, without any discussion. This forest isn’t a whole lot
different from a war zone. If one of your comrades disappears on a

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mission, you’ll move heaven and earth to find him. But if he goes
AWOL? Screw him. He made his choice.
We’ll look for Sutherland when it’s light. And we’ll come back
again to search with Dalton, even if by then we’ll be looking for a
body. Right now, though, we need shelter, or there’ll be three bodies
lying frozen in the snow.
We continue on to my snowmobile. It has Dalton’s saddlebags, removable, easily converted into a backpack. We stuff everything in,
and Anders insists on carry ing it while I lead.
“I can bench-press my own weight,” I say. “I can carry that bag.”
“But you’re the one who knows where we’re going,” he says.
“Uh, no, I don’t. Bear Skull Mountain is just to the north, where
we might find a cave, but that’s all I’ve got.”
“I don’t even know which direction is north.”
I could point out that we have a compass, but Anders isn’t just directionally challenged—put a compass in his hand, and it starts spinning, as if his very physiology foils him.
“North is to our right,” I say.
He lifts his hands, checking for the L that indicates left. I sigh. He
grins and hefts the bag as we head out.

I find the mountain. Anders finds the cave. He’s a spelunker, which
is not the hobby for a guy who can’t tell his left from his right. As
compensation, he draws amazing maps of cave systems, but Dalton
still insists that he never go caving without a more directionally adept
partner, which these days is often me.
Anders can look at a mountain and, in one sweep, find the most
likely places for a cave entrance. By the time we reach the mountain,
the snow is light enough that he’s able to point out two spots. We
pick the one with a natural pathway leading to it.
The first time I entered a cave was with Dalton, visiting a local
recluse. I’d seen the small opening under a rock ledge and thought,
That’s not a cave. To me, a cave is the sort of place a bear might make

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a den, with a wide opening. Most entrances to a system, though, are
more like this: a gap that doesn’t look big enough for even me to
squeeze through. As always, perception is deceiving, and Anders
makes it inside without even snagging his snowsuit on the rocks.
It opens wider past the entrance, but it’s still not a stereotypical
cave. The first “room” is maybe six feet in diameter with a ceiling
just high enough for Anders to sit without scraping his head.
Caves maintain a constant temperature year-round, so Anders can
remove his snowsuit without fear of frostbite. Halfway through examining him, as sweat drips into my eyes, I strip out of mine, too.
His collar is bruising where the helmet slammed down, but the
bone is intact, and he accepts only one of the two painkillers I offer.
We spread out the contents of my bag. In winter, Dalton assigns one
of the militia guys to check the saddlebags daily to make sure they’re
fully stocked. It always seemed like overkill, but now I send him a
silent apology as we find everything we need: flashlights, extra batteries, a full water canteen, meal bars, flares, emergency blankets, waterproof matches, and a first-aid kit.
“You want to see if we can get in farther?” Anders says when a
stray gust sets me shivering.
“Good idea.”
Exploring an uncharted cave takes time. Anders wiggles through
one tight passage, only to have to back up when it narrows. After
maybe half an hour, we find a decent cavern, tall enough to kneel in,
long and wide enough to sleep in.
We kill time by talking. Anders is the chatty one, but with a friend,
I can give as good as I get. When we’re tired enough to sleep, I set my
watch alarm for first light and stretch out on the blanket.
The moment quiet falls, I hear something deep in the cave.
It sounds like scraping. I picture a grizzly sharpening its claws on
the wall, and I have no idea if they do that, but that’s exactly what it
sounds like. A rhythmic, long, and slow scratching.
Anders whispers, “You hear that?”
I nod and then realize that’s pointless. Another thing about caves?
Unless there are direct vents to the outside world, there’s no light. Absolute darkness. I remember the first time Anders showed me that,

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admitting he snuck out sometimes to sit in the complete dark and
complete silence. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his darkness.
At the time, I hadn’t understood. Oh, I understood the appeal—I
felt it, that mix of incredible discomfort and incredible peace. Absolute dark and absolute clarity, reaching into the darkness inside me. But
there seemed to be nothing dark in Anders. I know better now. It took
some time for me to come to terms with his past. And then more
time to realize that the person I’d befriended wasn’t a mask he wore
in Rockton. It’s all him, the dark and the light.
I turn on my flashlight and tell him I do hear something, and he
says, “Scratching?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Bear?”
I mentally fl ick through my local critter list, courtesy of the naturalist who shares my bed. Around here, most predators will take
shelter in a cave if that’s what presents itself, especially in bad weather.
“Probably bear,” I say.
“Black, right?”
“The blacks stay in the forest.”
“Of course they do. Grizzlies. It’s always grizzlies.”
“Could be a mountain lion.”
“I’ll stick with grizzlies.”
As for how a bear or mountain lion would get in—it’s a cave system, which means there are bound to be bigger entrances. We’re safe
in here, though. This cavern only has two openings, and both were
barely big enough for Anders.
“So we stay?” I ask, when he says we’ll be safe.
“You okay with that?”
“I will be after I double-check the perimeter.”
He chuckles. “Good idea.”
He makes his way along the walls, ensuring we didn’t miss an
opening. I crawl to the back passage and push my head and shoulders
through.
I call, “It’s not big enough for a bear or cat. We’re—”
A voice echoes through the passage. I hesitate, thinking it’s my
own. But the voice comes again, and it’s definitely not mine.

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I withdraw quickly and whisper, “Listen.”
He pokes his head in. After a moment, he pulls back, swearing
under his breath.
“I’m not imagining it, then,” I say.
“No. Guess we’re making a moonlight trek to Rockton after all.”
He’s right. Even if it’s only settlers, we can’t take a chance. Time
to pack and go.
As I roll up my blankets, the voice comes again, and this time I
catch “Hello?” It sounds like a woman.
I motion to Anders that I’m going to crawl farther along that passage. He nods. The voice is too far away to be an immediate danger.
I reach a turn and shimmy around it, which requires a move Petra
calls “humping the wall.” In other words, rolling onto my side and,
well, making that particular motion to wriggle around a ninety-degree
angle. The moment I turn the corner, I can distinguish words.
“Hello?” she calls. “I heard voices. Please, if you can hear me, please,
I need . . .”
The rest trails off. I lie on the floor, listening and considering. Then
I shimmy past that corner again and back all the way out.
“It’s a woman,” I say. “She heard us talking, and I think she’s calling
for help.”
“Shit.” Anders rubs a hand over his face.
“Have the hostiles ever lured people in like that? As a trap?”
“Not since I’ve been here. But there’s always a first time.”
I echo his curses.
“Either way,” he says, “we might not even be able to get to her. I
say we see how close we can get and assess the situation.”

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FOUR

First, Anders struggles to hump the curve. Then we hit a squeeze even
I don’t dare try. We back up and resume packing to leave, but I still
hear that voice, and even if I can’t make out the words, my imagination fi lls them in.
“There was a passage off the one we came in through,” I say.
“You want to give it a try?”
“I’m a chump, right?”
He smiles. “Then we both are, ’cause I was just going to suggest
we try to find another way before we give up.”
“It’s probably a trap.”
“Yep.”
“That path up the hillside . . .” I say “At the time, I was crowing
about our good luck, finding a natural path straight to the cave entrance. Now I’m thinking it was a little too lucky.”
“Yep.”
“So we try to get closer?”
“Yep.”
We take the other passage. It’s slow going. We catch the occasional
sound of a voice, but it echoes too much to track. Each time we try
a new route, we mark it so we don’t get lost. We crawl around for at
least an hour, and the woman has gone silent. I’m about to say we
should just give up when I catch soft crying. Then I see light.

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We fl ick our own light off fast. In front of me, Anders picks his
way toward the crying until I see an opening ahead, and he stops
so fast I bash into him. He drops onto his stomach so I can see over
him. The passage ends in a cavern, and in that cavern, there’s a coiled
rope and an old wooden crate. The light, though, seems too dim to
be coming from there.
Anders motions that he’s going to check it out, and he crawls on
his belly, knife in hand. Then he stops. At least a minute ticks by as I
watch him leaning and peering before he inches through.
I creep along until I can see the cavern. It’s no bigger than the first
one we’d stopped in. There’s the crate and the rope and . . . a hole in
the floor. That’s where the light is coming from—that hole. Anders
is edging around it, trying to peer down without leaning over.
As I crawl through, I realize the rope is attached to an old metal
hook, driven into the rock. It’s knotted for scaling down the hole,
but right now it’s coiled at the top. Yet that soft crying comes from
below. From inside the hole.
It’s a trap. It has to be. Other wise . . .
In the city, I’d think this was a hostage situation. But out here, that
makes no sense.
If it’s not a trap, then someone is trapped. A settler or a hostile, or
even just an adventurer, too naive to realize she’s a few months out of
season for adventuring.
There. A logical explanation. Either a trap or an accident. As for
that shiver up my spine, the voice whispering that isn’t what this looks
like? Clearly mistaken.
I motion to Anders that I’ll take a closer look. I try to peer down
that shaft without being seen, but there’s no way to position myself in
shadow—the light is right in the center of the hole. When I peek
over the edge, she sees me. And I see her, and the second I do, I know
my brain has made a mistake. My gut did not.
She wears what looks like men’s clothing, oversized and ragged,
and she’s standing at the base of a drop at least fi fteen feet straight
down to a cavern no more than five feet in diameter, the bottom covered in furs. There’s a crate, like the one up here. Hers has a candle
burning on it. Nothing more. Just a woman and furs and a crate and

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a candle. Her long hair is matted, her face streaked with dirt, tear
tracks running through it.
She could still be a hostile. This could be her home, and we’ve been
lured here. But when she looks up and sees me, she bursts into fresh
tears.
I’ve heard that expression before. Bursts into tears. I’ve never really
seen it, though, like never I’d never seen a storm strike before today.
This is exactly what it sounds like: a dam bursting, tears coming so
fast they leap from her cheeks as she falls to her knees, face upturned
to mine.
“Oh, God,” she says. “Please be real. Tell me you’re real.”
Anders crawls to the edge. “Just hold on. We’re going to get you
out—” He stops. “Nicole?”
She’s looking up, blinking as hard as she can. “Will?”
“Holy shit,” he whispers. Then, “It’s me, Nicole. Will Anders. Just
hold on. We’re going to get you out of there.”
She grimaces, as if she’s trying to smile. Then the tears come again,
body-racking sobs of relief as she falls to the floor.

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FIVE

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As we lower the rope, Anders whispers to me, “Nicole Chavez. She
disappeared last year in the fall. We found—We thought we found her
body. We were sure of it. The clothing—”
He shakes his head. Time for that later. We’ve lowered the rope,
and Nicole reaches for it but misses. Anders shines his light down and
says, “Nicki?” and she looks up straight into the beam and yelps, hands
going to her eyes.
“Sorry,” he says and turns the fl ash light aside. “There. Light’s
off. Just take hold of the rope. Good. You’ve got it. Now put your
foot on the first knot . . .”
He coaches her, and she tries—damn it, she tries so hard, and every
time I say, “Here, we’ll come help,” she says, “No, I’ve got this.” But
she doesn’t have it. She’s too weak.
I look at that hole, not even big enough to stretch out in, and I
hear Anders’s words
Disappeared last year in the fall.
My stomach heaves.
“Nicole?” I call. “Just wait. Will’s coming down.”
Anders shakes his head at me. “You should be the one.”
“She knows you.”
“But I’m probably going to need to haul her up.”

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“Right. Okay.”
I climb down the rope. When I reach the bottom, I say, “I’m Casey
Butler.”
“Pleased to meet you, Casey Butler.” She hiccups a laugh that turns
into a sob and falls against me. I enfold her in a hug, and she’s so thin
I could have hauled her up that rope myself. I tell her it’ll be all right,
she’s safe now, we found her. Then she pulls back suddenly.
“We need to go.”
“It’s okay. We’re the only ones here.”
She starts to shake, her fingers gripping my arms. “No, we need to
go. Please. Quickly. Before he . . .”
She can’t even finish, and I try to calm her, but she’s too agitated.
Help has finally arrived, and she needs to get out now.
I fix the rope around her waist and knot it as well as I can. Then I
give Anders the go-ahead. He pulls her up, and I help by boosting her.
She’s just beyond my reach when she convulses, saying, “No!” and
I yell, “Will! Hold on!” and she’s kicking, and I’m trying to grab her,
telling Anders to lower her again. He gets her down, and the moment
her feet touch the furs, she’s scrambling for the crate, saying, “Sorry,
sorry, sorry. I just—I need—” She reaches it and drops to her knees
and pulls off the cover. Inside are two books with battered bindings.
As she pulls one out, pages fall, and I see handwriting and realize
they’re journals. Filled journals.
“I’m sorry,” she says as more pages fall. “I just need—I have to take
them. Please.”
“Of course,” I say, and I gather the pages, and she says, “I know I
should leave them. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. We have a bag.”
She lets out a shuddering sigh and then, hugging the journals to
her chest, she lets Anders pull her up.

When I climb out, Anders is examining Nicole, and she’s staring at
him, tears rolling silently down her cheeks.

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“You look just like I remember,” she says. “You’re so . . .” She
flushes and drops her gaze with an awkward laugh. “Sorry. I’ve been
dreaming of someone rescuing me for so long that I can’t help thinking this must be one of those dreams, because if I ever get rescued,
it’s going to be by a couple of miners who haven’t seen a shower in
weeks.”
“Oh, I’m not nearly as clean as you think,” Anders says. “You just
can’t see the dirt. And Casey scrubbed up before she climbed down
to rescue you. She’s such a prima donna.”
Nicole laughs, a real one, and looks up at him. “I remember that
about you. You were always funny and kind, and I wanted to get to
know you better.” Another flush. “Not like that. I just mean you
seemed nice.”
Her hands flutter on her lap, and as Anders examines her, he keeps
teasing, that gentle way of his, but even as he does, he sneaks me looks
that tell me this is not the woman he remembers. She’s dangerously thin,
and up close, I can see signs of malnutrition, her hair patchy, rashes on
her skin.
“Can we leave now?” she says. “Please? I’m not hurt, and I’d really
like to get out of here. I can make it. Just show me the way.”
Anders and I look at each other. I say, “It’s the middle of the night,
and there’s been a storm. We’ll go if that’s what you absolutely need,
but it’ll be much safer to wait until morning.”
She starts to shake, and I hurry on. “If you need to get out of
here, we completely understand. But you are safe. We have guns, and
we’re both police officers.”
“Both?” She looks from me to Anders. “Oh. I know Will likes caving, so I thought you two were out doing that. I didn’t realize it was
night.” Another twist of a smile. “Or winter.”
“It is,” I say. “We were—”
I think of what we were doing. Of that bloodied toque. Of the
man in the path. I’m not telling her that, so I say, “We were on patrol
when the storm hit, and it was late in the day, so we holed up here.
The point is, we have supplies, and we’re armed. We’ll be fine until
morning. One of us will stay awake, and we’ll leave at the first hint of
light. But if you need us to go now, we can do that.”

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She nibbles her lip and looks at Anders.
He nods. “Casey’s right. You want to get out of here as fast as you
can. We totally get that, and we’ll do our best to make that happen.
But it is safer in the daytime.”
She squares her shoulders. “He won’t come tonight. If he does . . .”
She looks, not at Anders, but at me. “Will you shoot him?”
“With pleasure.”

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SIX

We return to the cavern where we left our things. Anders sits guard
at the entrance while I unpack for Nicole. I hand her two energy bars,
and she stares at them and says, “Chocolate?”
“Well, supposedly. It’s not exactly Godiva.”
Tears well again. “I used to turn up my nose at Godiva. Clients
would buy us baskets, and I’d tell my co-workers that if you’ve had
real Swiss chocolate, Godiva wasn’t any better than that cheap stuff
you get at Easter. Do you know how many times I dreamed of those
baskets?” She opens a bar and inhales. “No fancy chocolate can touch
this. Not today.”
She takes a bite, and the sheer rapture on her face makes my eyes
well.
“Were there Saskatoon berries in Rockton this year?” she asks. “I
remember Tina’s jam. On Brian’s bread. That was heaven.”
“Tina made jam,” I say as I hand her the water pouch. “And Brian
is still baking bread. You’ll get all you want tomorrow.”
“So Tina and Brian are still there,” she says. “What about—” She
stops herself. “I’m sorry. You need to sleep.”
“Nah, Casey never sleeps,” Anders says. “You want to know who’s
still in Rockton? Let’s see, there’s . . .”
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Anders doesn’t list everyone. There are nearly two hundred people.
A few months ago, I couldn’t have imagined a town that small. Now
it feels huge, as I struggle to remember names. This is community
policing, where every resident expects you to know their name. More
importantly, I need to know them all because policing in Rockton
isn’t like law enforcement anywhere else in the world.
Rockton is supposed to be a place of refuge for those in need, those
whose very lives depend on escaping the world— escaping an abuser,
escaping false charges, escaping an impossible situation or a stupidly
naive mistake. The town is financed by also admitting white-collar
criminals who’ve amassed a fortune and are willing to pay very well to
lie low until they’re forgotten. Then there are those like me and
Anders, on the run for something we did, something that does deserve
retribution, but the council has decided our crimes aren’t the types
we’re liable to re-commit and they are other wise in need of our skills.
So that’s Rockton. Or that’s what it’s supposed to be. There’s a
deeper ugly truth, the one that means they really need people like me
and Anders. Modern Rockton, established as a haven by idealists in
the sixties, is now run by investors who aren’t content to take a cut
of profit from white-collar crime. They accept massive admission fees
from actual criminals, giving Dalton false stories, which leaves him
trying to uncover the real criminals to protect the real victims.
These criminals are exactly what Anders and I discuss once Nicole
is asleep. She’s snoring softly, telling us she’s definitely out, and we slip
into the next cavern, our voices lowered as we talk. We discuss the
possibility that Nicole’s captor isn’t a settler or a hostile but a monster
much closer to home.
Before she fell asleep, I’d asked her, as carefully as I could, if she
could tell us anything about her captor. She said that the whole time
she’d been in there, he’d covered his face. She knew only he was undeniably male. As for how she knew that . . . I know the answer. But
I wasn’t making her say it.
“I want to say it’s not possible he’s from Rockton, but—” Will runs
a hand over his hair. “Shit.”
“It wouldn’t be easy. Presumably he’s coming up at least once a
week, likely twice, with food and water. It’d be a long hike in bad

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weather, but if he left Rockton in the early evening and got back in
time for his work shift in the morning, no one would be the wiser.
It’s not as if residents can’t sneak past the patrols.”
Rockton isn’t a walled city. They’ve tried that—it only makes
people rebel. Residents aren’t prisoners. The rules against wandering
into the forest are for their own good, and most people know enough
to stay put.
“I’ll need a list of everyone who has been in Rockton since before
Nicole disappeared,” I said. “I’ll cross-reference it against those who’ve
been caught out at night, but really, we’re going to be looking at every
able-bodied male.” Which encompasses most of the population. Less
than twenty-five percent is female, and you don’t get into Rockton
if you aren’t “able-bodied”—we just don’t have the resources.
“Anyone on Eric’s list who might be good for it?” Anders asks.
I wish it was a list. It’s a book fi lled with details he’s gathered on
every resident he knows or suspects is in Rockton under false pretenses. Most of it is suspicion, but in Rockton, it’s guilty until proven
innocent. It has to be.
We discuss a few possibilities. I don’t tell Anders what Dalton suspects them of. Anders knows we have criminals in Rockton. Hell,
technically, he’s one of them. I’m one of them too, but I’m not in the
book because Dalton alredy knew my crime when I arrived. I’ve convinced Dalton that Anders needs to know what we’re dealing with,
but he’s never seen the book and doesn’t want to.
What I tell Anders is names only, and he gives me his thoughts
on each. Two of them arrived after Nicole disappeared. We discuss
the others.
“Personally, I like Mathias for it,” Anders says, leaning against the
cave wall as we sit, side by side, blanket drawn over our legs.
“Mathias isn’t on my list.”
“He should be.”
“He isn’t even on Eric’s list.”
“He should be. Crazy butcher Frenchman should be on every list.”
“I like Mathias.”
“You like weird. Look at the company you keep.”
I bop my head against his shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

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“I meant Eric. I am the picture of normalcy and mental health.”
There was a time pre-Dalton when Anders and I fl irted with the
idea of, well, flirting. On paper, he’s perfect—gorgeous, funny, smart,
sweet. Finding the deeper and darker parts should have made him
even more perfect for me. Instead, it made him too good a fit. Even
before that, it would have felt like fl irting with a brother. So very
wrong.
“Nicki doesn’t suspect it’s someone from Rockton, does she?”
Anders says.
“She doesn’t seem to, considering she’s eager to get back there.
Which might mean she somehow knows it’s not a resident. But more
likely, she just doesn’t think it could be. Because that’s not the kind
of person we let in.”
Anders shuts his eyes. “I liked Rockton a lot better when I thought
I was the only exception.”
“You’re not that special. Sorry.”
He smiles and squeezes my hand under the blanket. “So how are
we going to handle this? Taking her back to the very place where
her kidnapper might be waiting.”
“Very, very carefully.”

We crawl out of the cave at eight thirty the next morning. It looks
like 2:00 a.m., not even a hint of gray to the east.
“It’ll be light soon, right?” Nicole says. “I know it takes a while
for the sun to come up, but it gets gray long before that.” She manages a smile. “I’m used to gray.”
As she says that, a realization hits, and I turn to Anders and point
at my eyes. Nicole has been in candlelight for . . .
I keep avoiding the question of how long she’s been down there. I
cannot comprehend the idea of being in that hole for a year. Even
thinking it sends my brain spiraling, unable to process. I hold on to
a fantasy that she left Rockton and was living on her own, and her
captivity was recent.
However long she’s been down there, though, she cannot be out

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here in full daylight. It would be like looking into an eclipse, permanently damaging her retinas.
We can work around that. Put on a helmet, the visor tinted. Blindfold her if we need to. But while I look at that darkness and know
“gray” isn’t coming anytime soon, I also know how much she wants to
leave—needs to leave. If it were me, I’d run until I collapsed. Get away,
as far as I could, as fast as I could.
We set out.

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SEVEN

The compass leads us back to the path. We find the snowmobiles and
dig them out. Then we discover a problem I feared.
“It’s dead,” I say as I try—again—to start Anders’s snowmobile.
“Is that the technical term?” he asks.
I mouth an obscenity, and Nicole chuckles. Dalton has been teaching me basic mechanics, but there hasn’t been time for more than
having him explain while he fi xes something.
As I head to open the hood, my foot kicks at the snow and the smell
of fuel wafts up.
“I think the technical term is ‘out of gas,’ ” Nicole says.
She’s right. When the machine ended up on its side, it started leaking fuel through a cap that must not have been screwed on properly.
“We can siphon some from the other sled,” Anders says.
“We don’t have a hose,” I say. “And I’m not sure lack of fuel is the
only thing keeping her down. You had a collision and a wipeout. Take
mine with Nicole. I’ll follow the path on foot.”
Anders shakes his head. “If you walk, we all—”
“No.” I catch his eye and shoot a look toward Nicole. I made her
sit while I examined the sled. She’s winded, and there’s no way she
can walk to Rockton.
“Then you two take the snowmobile,” Anders says.

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I wave the compass. He gestures at the path. I wave the compass
again. He sighs.
“I’m not even going to ask what all that means,” Nicole says.
“Casey is reminding me I can’t find my way out of a shopping mall.
I’m pointing out that I have a path to follow. She’s not buying it.”
“If it was a straight line to Rockton . . . ,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah. But I’m not leaving you out here. All three of us can
ride. I’ve doubled up with Eric.”
“It’s a matter of space not weight,” I say. “Stop arguing, and get on
the damn sled. You’ll be in Rockton within the hour. You can send
Kenny back for me.”
Nicole is shivering convulsively. She’s wearing my snowsuit and
Anders’s sweater, but she’s having trouble regulating her body temperature, a combination of semistarvation and living in a controlled
temperate environment. As soon as she sees us looking, she straightens and says, “I’m fine. Just caught a chill. I can walk.”
Anders looks at me. “You’re taking the backpack and my snowsuit.”
“Bag, yes. But that snowsuit? I’ll be lucky if I don’t face-plant every
five paces, tripping over it. I’m fine.”
“Nicki? We’re going to switch suits, okay? Mine probably smells
more than Casey’s, but it’s a sexy, manly smell.”
I snort at that, but it gets a glimmer of a smile from Nicole. We find
a sheltered spot, and he strips fi rst, and we help her switch as fast as
possible. After a few last words, they’re on the sled and roaring to
Rockton.
I start walking. It’s five kilometers. I can do that in a couple of hours.
I have to laugh at the thought. In the city, if someone told me it’d
take me two hours to travel that far, I’d wonder if I had to get on all
fours and crawl.
I’m not a runner—muscle damage means I can’t do more than dash
from point A to point B. But down south it wasn’t unusual for me to
walk this far to work in good weather, and I could clock it in under
an hour easily. Walking in a snowy forest is a whole different thing.
Which is why humans invented snowshoes, to emulate animals with
oversized feet as an adaptation to winter travel. And, yes, that’s another Dalton tidbit, squirreled away in my brain. He’s been taking

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me snowshoeing, though I’m not sure if it’s more for my education
or his amusement.
I’m thinking of the last time we went out, a week ago, heading
into the forest with the fi xings for a bonfire and—
A twig cracks to my left.
I spin. Even as I do, I’m mentally rolling my eyes. It’s going to take
more than four months up here to stifle the city girl in me. I still need
to pay attention. But the startle response—hand going to my gun—
isn’t required . . . unless I have a hankering for venison or rabbit.
A wash of gray to the east promises sunshine, but it’s no more than
a promise, and I need to shine my flashlight into the forest. I expect
to hear more twig snapping as some curious woodland creature beats
a hasty retreat.
Instead, I hear silence. An eerie one I’d have noticed earlier if I
hadn’t been amusing myself in pleasant-memory land.
Quiet’s not good in a forest.
Um, it’s always quiet in the forest.
I said that once, and Dalton made me stop talking, close my eyes,
and identify five sounds, not unlike a drill sergeant making me drop
and give him five. It’d been a lesson, too. I easily heard the sounds,
even if I needed help identifying them. Quiet isn’t silence. When the
forest goes silent . . .
There’s a predator nearby.
Right. Me.
But even as I reason that, I’m still shining that flashlight, and the
hairs on my neck are still up. I’m just a human. Wildlife steers clear,
but it doesn’t stop what it’s doing and wait for me to pass.
I consider. Then I take a step in the direction of the noise. I stop.
Silence. Another step. Still silence. Another . . .
The wind whips past in a sudden gust, startling me again, and I get a
face full of blowing snow. Then an eerie whine cuts through the trees
and another blast of wind hits, driving icy pellets into my face.
That’s why the forest went quiet. A fresh storm blowing up.
I turn back toward the path, mentally calculating how much farther
I have to go—
A figure stands ten feet away. Wearing a snowsuit, a dark balaclava,

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and goggles. The first thing I process is that he’s roughly Dalton’s size.
But then he moves, and that movement tells me it’s not Dalton. The
balaclava and goggles aren’t something he would wear while combing the woods for me . . . and it’s exactly what was wrong about that
figure on the path yesterday, one reason we’d mistaken it for a bear,
our eyes failing to see a human face.
I remember what Nicole said about never seeing her captor’s face.
How it’d always been covered.
I raise my gun. The figure dives into the undergrowth. I fi re a
warning shot, the sound echoing, some creature to my right barreling through the trees in escape.
I’m looking around, both hands on my gun, having dropped the
flashlight when I aimed. It’s on the ground behind me, lighting the
scene, but a visual sweep shows nothing, and the wind swirls madly
now, ice beating my face, stinging my eyes as I struggle to keep them
open and—
I sense something behind me. I spin and see a metal bar on a collision course with my skull. I duck, and it glances off my ponytail.
There’s a grunt, and the man lunges, metal bar in fl ight, poised to
strike me as soon as I run. I don’t run. I wheel and kick.
It’s a crappy kick. Guys on the force always expected me to be some
kind of martial arts expert, given my Asian heritage. I do have a black
belt . . . in aikido. Kicks aren’t my thing.
But I kick now because it’s the best move, and while my foot connects, there’s not enough power—my messed-up leg again. It’s enough
to knock him off balance, though. I go in for the throw down, and I
grab the arm holding the bar, but a whiteout gust slams us at that
very moment, and I can’t see what I’m grabbing for. I glimpse something dark, and my fingers close instead around the metal bar. It starts
to slide, too smooth for a decent grip.
I twist, thrusting the bar up and getting under it. My motions match
his rather than opposing them, and he gives another grunt of surprise.
His grip loosens, and I wrench on the bar, and then it’s mine, which
is nice, but not really what I want.
I whip the bar as far away as I can. I don’t go for my gun, though.
The snow is swirling around us, and I can barely see a guy who isn’t

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more than two feet away. I’m as likely to lose my weapon like he just
lost his. So I keep the gun holstered and punch instead, an uppercut
aiming for the highest point of the dark figure.
My fist connects with a thwack. The figure reels, and I swing again,
a right jab this time. It’s a glancing blow, my knuckles grazing his
snowsuit as he dodges. And then he’s gone.
He’s retreated only a foot or two, but it’s enough. He disappears
behind the snow veil. I lunge, swinging, and I’m moving slow enough
that I keep my balance when my fi st strikes air. I do, however, hit a
tree. Pain rips through my arm, and I keep moving, wheeling, to put
that massive trunk at my back. I press up against it, fists raised, watching for movement through the swirling snow.
I wait. And then I wait some more.
There’s not a damn thing else I can do. I can’t see through the snow.
I can’t hear over the howl of the wind. I am frozen here, quite literally
starting to freeze as snow pelts my face and melts and freezes again,
and then it’s not melting; it’s coming so hard and fast that it’s piling
on me, and still I don’t move.
I think of that hole where Nicole was held captive. It’s all I can think
of, and I know if I make the wrong choice here, that’s where I’m going.
My brain screams that I’m an idiot for letting Anders leave. I’d
been focused on protecting Nicole, keeping her out of that hole. The
thought that I could end up there myself did not occur to me until
now, as I stand against this tree, letting the snow pile over me as I blink
to keep my eyes clear of snow because I do not dare shut them for a
second.

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I stand there as the snow piles up, and my muscles whine and then
screech in complaint. Yet I do not, for one second, think, Oh, I’m sure
he’s gone by now. I can’t take that chance.
So I stand there until distant gray on the horizon fulfills its promise.
While I don’t see the sun—the storm still rages, and its rays can’t pierce
the clouds—it becomes light enough for me to distinguish shapes,
and that’s all I need. To be sure there isn’t a man in a snowsuit standing right there, waiting. I drop to a crouch and peer at the ground.
Through the snow, I see the indentations of our fight. On the other
side is his exit path. Those footprints haven’t fi lled with snow, meaning he did stand there, waiting, as blind as me, ultimately deciding I’d
slipped away.
I crawl through the woods. Part of that is staying close to the ground
so I can follow those fast-fi lling footprints. Part is so, if I find him, I
won’t be an upright human shape, easy to spot.
The footsteps lead to an open area, and I lose them as the forest
cover opens and the snow dumps down.
I straighten. I still can’t make out more than the dark shapes of trees.
The storm shows no sign of letting up, and now that I’ve lost my attacker, I need to hole up and wait for help. Anders will have reached
Rockton by now. Once the storm subsides, they’ll be out searching, and I need to be ready.

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I head in the direction I’m certain will lead me to the path. But I’m
moving slowly, and I can’t judge distance, and it feels as if I’ve been
walking forever, while at the same time, it feels as if I haven’t slogged
more than fi fty feet. There’s no sign of the path. I pull out the compass. The glass is completely fogged. I hold it at every angle and knock
it against my leg, to no avail. I scan the forest, squinting, searching for
at least the distant swell of mountains, but there’s nothing.
I swing left, hoping to find the path I made and follow it to the main
trail, but soon I know I’ve gone too far, my crawl-trail fi lled with
snow. And that’s when I drop. I just drop, my ass hitting the ground,
snowmobile suit whispering against the snow. I sit there, and I stare out,
and it’s as if that hour of standing in place and holding myself so tight
finally hits in a wave of complete mental and physical exhaustion.
I have no idea which way is north, south, east, west. The snow continues to fall, cold and wet, and I can’t feel my face, can’t feel my
toes. Even my glove-covered fi ngers are numb.
I’m lost. In so many ways. Lost and defeated.
The north has won. The forest has won. I thought I could do this.
Thought I could adapt, learn not to fight nature but work with it. That
was Dalton’s one overarching lesson. The forest isn’t the enemy. It’s
not trying to kill you. It just doesn’t particularly care if you live or die.
Well, I’m going to die. Maybe that should seem ironic—I escaped
my attacker only to perish in the forest. But if I have to go, I’ll take
this. A simple and painless death. I can feel lethargy creeping over me,
and I know it’s hypothermia. Just get sleepy and drift off.
I swear I hear Dalton snort at that. Snort and shake his head and
settle in to watch, not the least bit concerned because he knows that
simple and painless is not the way I’ll die. I’m just sulking.
Better hurry it up, Butler. You sit there much longer, you might get that
easy death whether you want it or not.
I’ve spent twelve years refusing to feel sorry for myself. Whatever
problems I faced in life, I brought them on myself. Self-recrimination
instead of self-pity. Yet one is as pointless as the other. I’m learning
to indulge in emotions I’ve kept tamped down so long— anger, outrage, grief, and yes, self-pity. So I wallow in poor-me for another
minute. Then I push to my feet, ignoring the muscles that scream for

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me to stop, just sit down, take it easy, it’s not like I’m going anywhere
while this storm rages.
Which I’m not—going anywhere, that is. I won’t waste my energy
when I might very well end up walking away from Rockton. I have
a plan, which I was formulating while sulking. I might have allowed
myself those moments, but that doesn’t mean I allowed them to be
unproductive.
Step one? Send up a silent thank-you to Anders, for the god-awful
scarf he gifted me with a few weeks ago.
Some Rockton residents earn extra credits with cottage industries,
like knitting. And they’re stuck with whatever materials they can convince Dalton to bring back. Dalton—whose idea of high fashion is
blue jeans, T- shirts, and cowboy boots— sees nothing wrong with
grabbing whatever is in the bargain bin at the textiles shop. When I
complained about my secondhand smelly scarf, Anders outdid himself, buying one that was a truly fl attering mix of neon green and
bright orange.
He’d made me wear it yesterday by hiding every other option. Now
I climb a tree, wrap the scarf between two limbs and leave the most
perfect flag imaginable, one I can see even through the snow.
Under that tree, I’ve created a shelter from a downed limb, covered
with one of the emergency blankets. It’s little more than a windbreak,
but it’ll do. Then I hunker in my shelter, with my back to a tree, gun
at the ready, waiting for rescue or attack, whichever comes first.
The storm hasn’t abated, but it did die down while I built my shelter, as if cutting me some slack. Forty-five minutes pass. A few more
hours of daylight remain, which means I have a decision to make—
do I use those hours to find my way back?
The damn compass hasn’t cleared. I still can’t see the mountains.
But my shelter isn’t enough for night. Nor is it safe. He’s out there.
Possibly waiting for dark, now that I’ve sent up a flare to helpfully pinpoint my location.
I’ll give it thirty minutes more. And as soon as I think that, I hear
the now-familiar distant whine of the wind picking up.
“No. Hell, no.”
I scramble out of the shelter and peer around. The snow is still fall-

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ing, but it’s light enough that I could have been walking. Should have
been walking.
Walking where? In circles? Farther into the forest?
I’m listening to that wind, and I’m squinting up into the sky, as dark
as twilight now, and I channel Dalton in an endless string of expletives to describe exactly how bad a decision it feels like. I watch the
storm roll in, feeling like the idiot standing in a field, spotting a funnel cloud and thinking, Huh, guess I should have gotten indoors when that
siren started.
But this isn’t a funnel cloud. I can’t get out of its path. Ultimately,
I did make the right choice. It just feels passive, waiting for rescue
instead of getting off my ass and wandering deeper into the forest to
collapse of exhaustion and freeze to death.
I take out another flare and light it. I watch it soar into the air, and
there’s this little part of me that almost hopes it will bring the guy in
the snowsuit, because at least then I can do something. He’ll come,
and I’ll be waiting, and I’ll shoot his ass and use his still-warm corpse
to construct a new shelter until the storm passes.
It’s an awesome plan. And proof, maybe, that I’ve been out here a
little too long.
I light another flare.
The storm hits then. And hit it does, even if I had warning. There’s
the darkness and the whine of the wind and then it really is like that
imaginary funnel cloud striking, an incredible gust of wind that
knocks me clear off my feet. I have to fight to get back up, the storm
raging already, as if, like me, it needed a break and is plenty pissed by
that show of weakness, coming back full force. I’m grabbing saplings
and dragging myself to my shelter, and with every inching step, I’m
cursing myself for building the damn thing in a clearing. I reach it
and—
Something hits me full in the face, and I scramble back, clawing.
A bag. There’s a plastic bag over my head, and I can’t breathe, and I
can’t pull it away, and my gloves keep slipping on the plastic, and I’m
panicking too much to take them off.
I manage to catch a fold in the plastic, and I yank and find myself
holding the emergency blanket that formed my shelter. I fight my way

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back, but there’s no way this blanket is staying on again. Not with
this wind.
I need to take shelter, even if shelter is no more than hunkering
down behind a fallen tree and wrapping the blanket around me.
I turn to leave the clearing, and he’s there. The man in the snowmobile suit. Standing less than a meter away. I can’t run in snow. He’s
too close for me to pull my gun. I swing at him. It’s all I can do. I drop
the emergency blanket and swing. He grabs my arm in an aikido
hold, but it’s not quite right; his grasp is a little too high.
Lower, Eric. You can’t get a proper fulcrum point there. All I have to
do is . . .
I twist, as I did then, and I break free, and there’s no thrill of victory, no follow-up swing. I know it’s no coincidence that I’m thinking of Dalton. As I break away, I catch a glimpse of his face, lit with
a fury that makes me suspect I’d be better off facing the guy in the
snowmobile suit.
“Eric.”

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NINE

Dalton propels me from the clearing like I’m a five-year-old being
marched from the mall after a tantrum. Four months ago, I’d have
thrown him off and warned him against ever laying a hand on me
again. Then I’d have added it to the list of “Things That Prove Sheriff
Eric Dalton Is an Asshole.”
That list included locking residents in the cell, tossing them into
the horse trough, and marching them through town, arm behind their
back. A power-drunk bully with a badge, who fancied himself some
kind of Wild West sheriff, two seconds from ordering miscreants to
a noon showdown in the town square.
That’s what I used to think. Some residents still do. But most know
better, and they understand that’s how he maintains order in a town
where he is the only law. Today, I see the sheen of sweat on his face,
hear him still catching his breath, and I know he saw that flare and
came running full speed from wherever he’d been searching. He’s still
in a panic, and anger is how he channels that. No “thank God I found
you, Casey,” but “Goddamn it, Butler, this was the fucking stupidest
stunt you’ve pulled yet.”
He marches me through the forest, not a glance at his surroundings, not a glance at his compass, knowing exactly where to find the
sled. He strong-arms me onto the back of it and then takes the front

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and clicks the ignition. The engine roars to life . . . and the snowmobile goes nowhere. He gives it gas. The tread spins.
I get words then. A string of expletives barely audible over the wind.
He climbs off. I try to do the same, but his hand slams down on my
shoulder, as if he might lose me again. I give him a look, lift his hand,
and climb off the sled.
There’s at least two feet of snow on the path. Heavy snow from
the earlier downfall with a layer of lighter stuff from the new storm.
Our combined weight is too much to make it through that.
He turns the sled around to use the tracks he made coming out. We
climb on, but the treads just grind deeper into the snow.
Dalton hands me the keys and points. I hand them back. He glowers.
I shake my head. He reaches out, as if to put my ass on that sled, whether
I want to go or not.
“It’s too slick,” I say, shouting to be heard over the wind. “I’m not
a good enough sled driver, and I’ll ride right off the path and then we’ll
be back where we started, me stranded in the forest in a snowstorm.”
He glares, knowing I’m playing into his fears. Then he looks up and
down the path, hand shading his eyes.
“We need to find shelter,” I say. “It’ll be dark soon.”
He gives me a no-shit look, but I’m still not getting conversation.
If he opens his mouth, he’ll want to ream me out for leaving Rockton against his orders, and that’s hardly productive.
Dalton keeps looking around. Assessing and comparing data to the
map in his head. He’s got his hood pulled up, dark toque almost
hiding his light hair. He normally wears it almost as short as Anders,
but he’s been letting it grow out for winter, when every bit of insulation helps. He’s also letting his beard grow out from its usual
can’t-be-bothered-to-shave-every-day stubble. Yet he keeps it trimmed,
assessing my reaction. That’s the side of him most don’t see, the side
that isn’t quite so fuck-you, is even a little bit self-conscious, making
sure his lover likes what she sees.
There’s plenty to like. Dalton isn’t gorgeous. I’d say he’s pleasantlooking if that didn’t seem like damning with faint praise. But there’s
something to be said for pleasant, for a face that’s easy to look at.
Crow’s-feet hint at the corners of his eyes despite the fact he’s two

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months younger than me. Those wrinkles come from spending as
much time as possible outside and not wearing sunscreen or sunglasses
as often as he should. I bought a coconut-based sunscreen, and when
he wore it, I may have commented on— and demonstrated—how
good he smelled. I may also have let my gaze linger a little longer
when he was wearing the Ray-Bans I bought. Yep, I’m playing him
shamefully, but if it saves him from skin cancer, it’s worth it.
Dalton finds the direction he wants and, still without a word, unloads his saddlebags. He’d grabbed mine from the clearing before
hauling me off, and now he stuffs his supplies in. I don’t offer to carry
it, partly because I know he’ll refuse but also because offering seems
like begging for his attention, his forgiveness.
We hike back to the clearing, and he starts gathering snow. While
I have no idea what he’s doing, I say, “Tell me what I can do, Eric.”
He doesn’t answer at first. Being pissy, though, isn’t going to get this
accomplished. Dark is falling fast, and we need shelter.
He motions for me to help him pile snow layering the soft and the
hard until we’ve constructed a massive mound. Then we wait. Dalton doesn’t say we’re waiting. He rummages through his bag and finds
water and bars and makes me eat and drink while he keeps checking
the snow pile. Finally he starts hollowing it out.
It’s dark by the time he’s finished. I won’t say he constructed an
igloo. It’s more rudimentary than that, and honestly, when I see what
he expects us to do, I hesitate.
I remember when my parents caught me digging out a snow fort
with a friend, and I was grounded for a week and forced to read the
medical fi le on two kids who’d suffocated in a collapsed snow fort.
That was life with my parents—when I tried something dangerous,
I didn’t get a lecture, I got coroner’s reports. Which put me in good
stead for being a hom icide cop, however much they’d hate to think
they helped me into a career so obviously beneath me.
My parents were . . . difficult. That’s really all I can say. They died
in a small plane crash a few years ago, so there’s no point in being
angry or bitter. If a part of me finds a small irony in the fact that they’d
died doing the kind of thing they’d warned me off . . . Well, I don’t
dwell on it. I loved my parents in my way, and I think they loved me

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in theirs, but I’ll never know for sure, and there’s nothing I can do
about that.
As for what Dalton wants me to do now, the question comes down
to this: do I trust him? The answer is: unequivocally. When it comes to
safety, he can be as paranoid as my parents, but he deals with that
through education—not the kind that comes with coroner’s photos
but the kind that says, If you’re going to build a snow fort, here are the ways
to make it safe. When he sees me looking skeptically at his shelter, he
finally does speak, grunting, “Roof ’s only a foot thick. It collapses?
You can dig out.”
We go inside, and he turns on the flashlight and motions for me
to give him my hands. When he pulls off my gloves, I say, “They’re fine,
Eric. I can feel them,” but he examines my fingers and then my toes,
warming them with his body heat, careful not to rub. Then he checks
my eyes, which feels like he’s checking a horse, pulling up my lids
and peering in without a word.
He hands me the water, and I drink some more. As our bodies heat
up the insulated shelter, he pulls off his snowsuit. I do the same, and
he sits there, cross-legged, ignoring the water pouch as I hold it out.
Instead, he runs his hands over his face and through his hair and exhales as if he’s been holding his breath all this time.
I crawl over to him, and when he looks up again, my face is right
there. I say, “I’m sorry,” and his hands are in my hair, lips on mine.
I lift my mouth to his, my lips soft, but it’s not that kind of kiss. It’s
the kind that says he’s been going out of his mind since he flew back
into Rockton and found me lost in the woods, midstorm, with the
psycho who captured Nicole.
Now I’m here, and I’m safe. He’s built this shelter, and I’m finally
safe.
So, no, it’s not a quiet kiss, or a soft kiss. It’s the kind that has me
flat on my back in two seconds, and undressed in not much more. It’s
hunger and need, edged with residual terror and panic. And I feed
right back into it, my own terror and panic of the last twenty-four
hours finding release in rough kisses and rougher hands and finally,
proper release, deep and shuddering as I collapse onto the snow-packed
ground.

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Dalton hovers over me, breathing hard, his eyes closed. I reach up
and put my hands against his cheeks. When he opens his eyes, I say,
“Hello.”
He chuckles. “Missed that part, didn’t I?”
“Kind of.”
“I was worried.”
“I know.”
He rolls onto his back and fl ips me onto his chest.
“I hate worrying,” he says. “Fucking hate it.”
“But you’re so good at it.”
He pushes my hair back, and I feel the tremor in his fingers as he
says, “You were gone, and the storm and then Will and Nicole and . . .”
He swallows. “I was so fucking worried.”
I bend down and kiss him. “I’m sorry. I really am. Sutherland
bolted, and I wanted sex.”
He sputters a laugh at that.
“Well, not with Sutherland, obviously,” I say. “But I wasn’t able to
go to Dawson City with you this time, and it was a long three days.”
“You missed my scintillating conversation.”
“Nah, just the sex. So, see, the problem was this: if you came back
and Sutherland was gone, we’d have had to go after him right away.”
“It could have waited five minutes.”
“It’d been three days, Sheriff. I wanted more than five minutes.”
“Pretty sure you didn’t just get more than five minutes.”
“I made an exception for your mood. You owe me. I will collect.
Anyway, the point is that I went after Sutherland so I could get sex
when you came back.”
“Not because you wanted to impress me? Have him waiting when
I returned?”
“Mmm, yes. That, too. But the sex excuse is funnier.” I stretch out
on him. “I made an error in judgment. The weather was good when
we left. Perfect, in fact. Now I know not to trust that. It literally
changed in a heartbeat.”
“It does that.” He pulls one of the emergency blankets over us. “I
overreacted, and I’ll apologize for that. Obviously, I can’t insist you
stay in town. That’s not right.”

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“As my lover, no. As my boss, you totally can. I distinguish between the two just fine, Eric.”
“Are you telling me you wouldn’t have done the same under your
old boss?”
“I didn’t want sex from my old boss,” I say with a smile, but then
add, “No, I would have still left. This was simply employer-employee
insubordination. Feel free to punish me for it. As for how you punish
me, you can blur the employer/lover line there.”
A sudden laugh vibrates through him.
He shakes his head. “You punished yourself enough. Lesson learned.
All I cared about was fi nding you. That storm blew up, and I started
thinking of how big this forest is and how I might never—” He takes
a deep breath. “Enough of that shit. You found Nicole.”
“Right. Good change of subject.” I start to roll off him, saying,
“I’ll let you get comfortable,” and he says, “This is comfortable,”
pulling me back on and adjusting the blanket over us. “If you get cold,
let me know,” he says.
“Weirdly, despite being naked in an igloo, I’m not cold.” I purse
my lips. “Except maybe my toes. I’m putting on my socks.” I do that,
and I put his on him, too, which makes him smile, and then I stretch
back out on his chest, cuddling into his body heat as I say, “So, about
Nicole . . .”
“I fucked up. I—”
I press my fingers to his lips. “You thought she was dead, so you
stopped looking for her. Will said you found a body. That’s not fucking up, Eric. I know you’re good at taking blame. Even better than
me.”
“Nah, I’m minor league. You’re pro.”
I stick out my tongue and then say, “Well, as a pro, let me speak from
experience and stop you right there. Skip it and move on, Sheriff. Tell
me about Nicole.”
He does. Nicole Chavez came to Rockton eighteen months ago
and hadn’t made much of an impression. That’s not a bad thing. She
wasn’t a troublemaker, kept to herself.
She disappeared last year. It was late October, and the weather
seemed fine, not unlike yesterday, but Dalton could read the signs that

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told him a storm was brewing. Come morning, Nicole’s roommate
reported she’d been out all night.
That wasn’t uncommon in Rockton. We’re the Vegas of the north,
with population stats that are clearly in the ladies’ favor. If Nicole
wanted overnight company, she’d have no problem fi nding it. But
that wasn’t normal for her, so Dalton set the militia checking door-todoor while he and Anders headed into the forest. When the storm
hit, they hauled ass home. The moment it cleared, they went back
out again.
After three days of searching, they gave up. The roommate admitted Nicole sometimes snuck past the town boundary, taking time for
herself. Dalton figured she went walking and got lost. He kept looking, but he knew as time passed, the likelihood of finding her alive
plummeted.
Come spring, they found a woman’s badly scavenged and decayed
body at the foot of Three Peaks Mountain. Her skull and spine showed
signs of trauma, and our town doctor Beth had ruled that she’d been
climbing, maybe searching for shelter from the storm, when she’d
slipped and fallen. The corpse had matched Nicole’s hair color and
size, but with the condition too bad for a proper ID, Dalton would
still never have leapt to the conclusion it was Nicole . . . if the body
hadn’t been wearing her clothing.
“Her captor set it up,” I say. “He found a corpse— a settler or
hostile. He might have even killed a woman who roughly matched
Nicole. He staged it so you’d stop looking.”
“And I fell for it.”
“Yeah, you messed up. I mean, obviously, if a woman goes missing out here and you fi nd a body matching hers and wearing her
clothing, your fi rst thought should be that she was kidnapped by a
crazy person who staged her death.”
When he hesitates, I roll my eyes. “That’s sarcasm, Eric.”
He says nothing.
“You’re still going to blame yourself, aren’t you?”
“So would you.” He shifts, arm going under his head. “Tell me
about finding her. I didn’t get much from Will. He was fi lling me in
as fast as he could while I got the sled going.”

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I tell him about the man in the snowsuit and about finding Sutherland’s toque. I plan to hold off on my up-close-and-personal encounter
with the guy today, but he says, “And you didn’t see any sign of him
after that?” and I won’t lie. Not to him.
I admit that snowmobile-suit guy came after me, and with every
word, Dalton tenses and by the time I finish, it’s like I’m lying on a
wooden plank. I decide it’s time to crawl off and get my clothes.
“He’s long gone,” I say as I dress. “I was careful when I set off the
flares. I knew I might draw him in. I was ready.”
“I know that. I just . . .” He takes a deep breath. “Are you okay?”
“He didn’t hurt me.”
“I don’t mean that, Casey. Are you . . . ?” He trails off and rubs
his mouth. “Stupid question, right? You’re going to tell me you’re fine,
even if I’m sure you’re not.”
I want to brush it off. No, really, I am fine. But I’m trying not to
do that with Dalton. “It did freak me out. I kept thinking of Nicole
and that hole and . . .” I inhale. “Can we talk about something else?
Please?”
He nods, pulls on his jeans, and takes bars from the bag, saying,
“Ran into an interesting guy in Dawson City.”
I smile. “Shocking.”
“No shit, huh.” He roots in the bag and hands me another bar.
“This par ticu lar guy caught my attention because he was running
down the street stark naked, which, in summer, wouldn’t be all that
strange, but at this time of year, even for Dawson City, it seemed a
little odd. So I went out to see what was going on and . . .”

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TEN

Dalton and I have fallen asleep. We’re half dressed—better for sharing body heat— and I’m curled up against him in my bra and jeans,
one emergency blanket under us, two more on top, snowsuits stretched
over as makeshift comforters.
It’s a sound sleep, both of us exhausted, and when I do wake, it’s
only because Dalton insisted I drink most of the water to rehydrate
and my bladder is screaming for mercy. I pull on my jacket, not bothering with my shirt. Boots next, and then I crawl from the shelter to
find actual sunlight seeping through the trees. I look up toward it,
smiling . . . and see a figure standing five feet away.
I’m still half asleep—and unarmed—and I scramble back into the
shelter. Dalton’s up, gun in hand as he dives past me through the exit
and then . . . “Fuck.”
“Sorry, Eric. Didn’t mean to spook her.”
The snow shelter muffles the voice, but I recognize the accent.
Dalton has traces of it. I used to think it was regional. It isn’t. It’s the
vocal tics of someone raised apart from the world, out here with his
family.
“Good morning, Jacob,” I call.
Dalton’s younger brother mumbles something that might be a
greeting. He reminds me of kids when I did school visits, those who

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| KELLEY ARMSTRONG

weren’t quite sure how to talk to a police officer and hedged their
bets by mumbling, gazes fi xed on their sneakers.
I let Dalton go first and then slip out behind him and hightail it
off to privacy as he calls, “Not too far!”
When I come back, I resist the urge to play hostess. Would you like
anything, Jacob? How about an energy bar? Water? Do you want to come inside where it’s warmer? I’m reminded of when my friend Diana drove me
crazy trying to win her ex-husband’s parents’ approval. That’s what I
do with Jacob. It’s not that he disapproves of me. He’s not sure what
to make of me. And then there’s the fact that I bear scars from our first
encounter, when he’d been drugged and out of his mind.
I remember when he spotted one of the scars once as it was healing.
I’d tried to make light by joking that it wouldn’t be noticed, pulling
up my sleeve to show that I had plenty more from the beating that
nearly killed me twelve years ago. And yep, that joke went about as
well as one might expect. Awkward humor isn’t my style, but Jacob
brings out that too, in my desperate need to make a connection with
the guy who matters most to Dalton.
I say, “I’ll go in and pack while you two talk,” but Dalton shifts
into my path, forcing me to stay.
Jacob looks like his brother, enough that the fi rst time I saw
him, there was a moment when I thought he was Dalton. The main
difference is the shoulder-length hair, and at this time of year, he’s
sporting an impressive beard. When he looks in my direction, I’m
reminded of the second biggest difference—the gaze that won’t meet
mine, ducking away, shy and uncertain.
Dalton says, “Jacob was just telling me he saw you out with Will.
He went looking for you guys after the storm. He caught the flares
yesterday, but by the time he got here, I had the shelter built. So he
stood watch.”
“You’ve been out here all night?”
Jacob shrugs and mumbles that it was no big deal, then says, “You
okay? Eric says there was a guy.”
“I’m fine, thanks. You didn’t happen to see anyone, did you?”
He shakes his head.
“Walk back with us,” Dalton says. “See if you and I can get that sled

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going. If not, I’d appreciate you accompanying us to Rockton, in
case this guy shows up.”

We don’t get Dalton’s sled going. So we walk. Jacob leaves us near
Rockton. I know we’re close even if we can’t see the town. It’s kept
hidden by methods that grow increasingly high-tech and expensive,
as the world outside becomes someplace where you can’t hide a settlement, even in the Yukon. Disguised at both ground level and aerial,
it uses everything from structural camouflage to technology that I
suspect even the average reclusive billionaire can’t get his hands on.
What I spot first are the hints I’ve learned to look for, and then
there’s a smile on my lips and a quickening of my steps, the sense most
people would instantly recognize as the feeling of returning home.
I’ve always felt the relief of closing my apartment door behind me,
but this is more. It’s a sense of place, of belonging, and it scares me a
little. I’ve only been here four months. I don’t know that Rockton is
home, that it can be home, that I’ll have that choice to make.
We’re still on the outskirts when I spot Anders. We radioed ahead,
and he’s waiting with a thermos of coffee.
“Figured you’d want this at the fi rst possible moment,” he says,
handing it to me.
“Best deputy ever.” I pour a cup and then hand the thermos to
Dalton, who drinks it straight. As I resume walking, I say to Anders,
“Okay, what’s up?”
“I brought you coffee. If you’re complaining, then maybe you won’t
want these cookies Brian baked for you this morning.” He pulls a
wrapped bundle, still warm, from his pocket.
I take them. “Something’s up, and it has nothing to do with why
you’re bringing gifts. You just do that because you’re awesome.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
“Casey’s right,” Dalton says. “Not about the awesome part. That
depends on what condition my town’s in. Something’s up, and it’s
making me think I might not be awarding you that awesome certificate anytime soon.”

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“There’s a certificate?”
“I have a stack of them,” I say.
“That’s because you’re sleeping with him.”
“Will,” Dalton says, “what’s going on?”
Anders makes a face. “I know the last thing you need is to be
plunged into a fresh crisis—”
“Spit it out, Will,” a voice says, and I glance up to see Isabel striding toward us.
Isabel Radcliffe. She’s forty-five, dressed in a sealskin coat and
mukluks, with no makeup or hair color—both being nonpriorities
in Rockton— and she still manages to be one of the most glamorous
women I’ve ever met.
Isabel is a former psychologist. Here she’s the local bar owner. And
brothel owner. I have issues with the latter, but we have become what
one might call friends.
She continues, “If you think Eric and Casey are not perfectly
capable of leaping from crisis to crisis, clearly your brain has frozen,
soldier boy.”
“I’m going to tell them,” Anders says. “I’m just easing into it.”
Her perfectly shaped brows arch. “I believe the situation is a little
more urgent than that.”
“We’ve been dealing with it for two hours. It can wait five more
minutes. It’s not life or . . .” He trails off as she shoots him another
brow arch.
“One of you talk,” Dalton says. “Now.”
Isabel says. “Your deputy made the mistake of telling Nicole that
we’re sending her to Whitehorse the moment this weather clears.”
“I was examining her,” Anders says, “and explaining my lack of
proper medical training, apologizing for it while promising we’ll get
her to a hospital as soon as possible. I was trying to be reassuring.”
“Proving your serious lack of mental health training.”
“Which is why the shrink should have been there, like I asked her.”
Isabel looks at us. “It’s both our faults. I had an incident at the bar,
and I was delayed. I’d spoken to Nicole and knew she didn’t want to
leave Rockton. I failed to convey that to Will. We had a storm and a

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crisis and no sheriff.” She lifts her hands. “And that’s not parceling out
blame. It’s just fact.”
“What’s going on with Nicole?” I say. “Obviously she’s upset about
leaving. Is that what we’re dealing with here?”
Anders and Isabel exchange a look.
“She’s barricaded herself in the ice shed,” Isabel says. “Threatening
to kill herself if we don’t promise she can stay.”

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I make a beeline for the icehouse. Dalton’s boots thump on the trodden snow behind me as he barks, “Out of her way!”
As I draw near the shed, I see a crouched figure resting against the
door, talking to Nicole.
I slow. “What’s Diana doing there?”
“She volunteered as a nurse,” Anders says. “And with the storm, we
could best afford to lose the least useful people.”
Which described Diana. I’ve known her half my life. Been her best
friend for years. While I’d ostensibly come to Rockton because
mobbed-up Leo Saratori finally figured out who killed his grandson,
the truth is that I’d been ready to accept my punishment. I’d come
here to help Diana escape her abusive ex. Then I discovered she’d gotten back together with that ex and stolen a million bucks from her
employer, and that was why we were here.
“I vouched for her,” Isabel says as she catches up. “I won’t say therapy
is making Diana a better person, but the only serious danger she poses
is to herself. You’ll notice she’s the only volunteer at that door. And
she wasn’t even the one who screwed up and let her escape.”
As I approach, Diana rises. I can’t read her expression. No more,
I’m sure, than she can read mine. We’ve moved beyond the stage
where she vows to destroy me. I’d say that’s comforting, but Isabel’s

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right—Diana’s only truly a danger to herself, as she always has been.
Nowadays, when we can’t avoid each other, we’re like two stiff-legged
dogs circling and waiting for the other to lunge. Neither ever lunges.
Neither submits, either. We just circle.
“He found you,” Diana says.
“Yep.” I no longer feel the urge to add a smart-ass sorry about your
luck. To give her credit, she also resists the urge to throw in a snarky
comment about Dalton.
Her gaze flicks over me. Hoping to see some damage from two days
in the wild? Or making sure I’m all right? I don’t even try to guess,
just nod at the door and say, “Is she talking to you?”
“No. It’s a one-sided conversation. I can hear her in there, though,
so she’s okay.”
I move closer to the door. “Nicole? It’s Casey.”
“You’re back.” Her voice drifts out. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Thank you. But I’d really like to speak to you, and that’ll
be easier if I can come in. It’ll just be me. Unless there’s someone else
you’d rather talk to. Eric’s here, too.”
“Can I talk from in here, please? I don’t mean to be rude, but
the moment I open that door, they’re all coming in.”
I don’t mean to be rude.
I feel those words, like I felt the ones asking how I was. Her voice is
trembling, but there’s no rage there. It’s as if she doesn’t deserve rage.
Or simply can’t muster the strength for it.
“They wouldn’t,” I say, “but you don’t know me well enough to be
sure of that, so we’ll talk through the door. Will says you want to stay
in Rockton.”
“I . . .” Silence. She tries again. “I . . .” Another pause. Then “You’re
right. This will be easier if I let you in. Can you do me a favor,
though?”
“Name it.”
“Tell the others to step back five paces and then say something, so
I know they’re not right outside the door.”
They do as she asks. The door opens, and I slide through.
It’s dark inside. The walls are several layers thick for insulation.

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There’s just a hint of light from under the door. I turn on my flashlight and look around. The building is almost empty. Ice has just
started being brought in, kept in a pit scraped down to permafrost
and covered with our version of hay for the horses.
The roof is low to minimize warm airflow, and even at not quite
five two, I can’t straighten. I start to sit on a hay bale, but Nicole motions for us to move farther in, where the others can’t hear.
When we’re seated, she pulls an ice pick from under her jacket. “I
will do it,” she says. “I just want to be clear on that. I know it’d be
more convincing if I were freaking out, ranting and waving this
around. But”— a wan smile—“I don’t have the energy for that. I just
want you to know I will.”
“Okay.”
She shifts on the hay bale. “I know how I’d do it. I spent a lot of
time thinking of that. He made sure I didn’t have anything to use,
but I got creative. In my head, at least. I’d think of all the things he
might bring and how I could use them to kill myself. Once, I even
tried swallowing rocks, seeing if I could choke myself and reasoning
that even if they passed, they might kill me in my digestive tract. It’d
be a worse death than choking. It’d do, though. Anything would do.”
She runs her fingers along the ice pick. “I tried dehydration. That
seemed to be the one sure way to go. I remembered the sheriff
giving lectures before we were allowed out on hikes. He said you can
go without food for weeks, but you’ll die of dehydration in days.”
She looks up with that twisted smile. “He made it seem so easy. When
I tried, the guy just knocked me out and poured water into me. I
didn’t choke then either. Unfortunately. But this?” She lifts the ice
pick. “This is a no-brainer, as my goddaughter used to say.”
“You have a goddaughter? How old?”
She waves a finger. “Uh-uh. I know the suicide prevention tricks.
Get me to talk, remind me of my life.”
“Actually, I was just making conversation.”
“Do you know what I used to dream of in that hole, Casey? Even
more than killing myself?” She waves around us.
“The icehouse?”
A burst of a laugh. “No. Good one, though. Lighten the mood.

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That’s another trick. I dreamed of Rockton. Do you know why I’m
here?”
“Eric fi lled me in. He maintains the privacy of residents unless I
need to know more. I needed to know more.”
Nicole was the daughter of a cartel accountant. When she was ten,
the Feds got hold of her father. The cartel murdered his wife, the message being he still had two children, so he might want to keep his
mouth shut. Instead, he took his family into witness protection, which
would have worked out better if the cartel hadn’t had a few DEA
officers on its payroll.
After a couple of close calls, her father withdrew his family from
the program, figuring he could hide them better himself. Then, when
Nicole was twenty-four, living under an assumed name, the cartel
sent photos of her to her father, who did the one thing he thought
would finally solve the problem—took his own life. The cartel still
pursued, believing her father had had money and information, which
he’d bequeathed to his children. When Nicole was twenty-nine, they
caught up with her older brother and killed him. A year later, she arrived in Rockton.
“I spent my life not knowing the meaning of safe,” she says. “For me,
safe was that honeymoon period after we moved—yet again. When
I felt secure enough to sleep in a bed, not huddled in the closet, clutching a knife, being very quiet so my father wouldn’t find me. Do you
know what he’d do if he found me there? Cry. I don’t think there’s
anything worse than seeing your father cry.”
She shifts on the bale. “When I was little, my father was safety for
me. Nothing bad could happen if he was there. And then that changed.
He’d catch me in the closet, clutching my knife, and tears would roll
down his cheeks, and he’d hug me, shaking, and all I could think
was He can’t protect me. He didn’t protect my mother. He couldn’t protect
us. And if your dad can’t? Well, then, no one can.”
A pause before she continues. “For most of my life, safe was the
six months after we ran. That’s how long it’d take the cartel to find us.
I’d spend one month waiting to see if they followed. Three months
being able to sleep. Then I had to start worrying again, knowing they
were coming. They were always coming.”

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She sets the pick on her lap. I don’t let my gaze follow it, or she’ll
know I’m not letting it out of my sight. I just have to grab it— she
lacks the strength to fight me. But I won’t. She needs to talk. I need
to hear what she has to say.
She continues, “When I came to Rockton, I spent the first week
sleeping with my back to the wall, holding a stolen knife. I’d listen to
people in the street, out having a drink, laughing, fl irting, goofi ng
around. Then, one night, there was a knock at the door. It was Petra
and Will and a few others wanting to know if I’d like to come out for a
drink. And I’m standing at the door, with a knife behind my back, saying no, I’m fine, thanks. Then, after they leave, Will comes back, and
I’m clutching that knife, certain this is it—the others are gone, and
I’m alone with this guy, and he’s going to do something. He tells me I
should keep my windows shut at night. The weather’s been good, so
people are leaving them open, and there’s been a rash of break-ins.
By ravens.”
She chokes on a laugh. “Ravens. After he left, I cried. I was ashamed
of myself, jumping to conclusions about him, but even more? I was
ashamed of myself for being afraid. No one was going to find me here.
I was safe. Safe.” She looks me in the eye. “Do you know what that
feels like? When you haven’t felt it in so long?”
I think of all the years I spent waiting for Leo Saratori to find me.
Not frightened. Just resigned. He would come, and I would die, and
there was no point building a life for myself when it could end at any
moment.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
She peers at me, and then nods. “So you understand.” She stretches
her legs, winces with the movement. “I know this town has problems.
But that’s what I dreamed of, in that hole. Coming back to Rockton.”
Given what happened out here, I would expect Nicole be holed
up threatening to take her life if we didn’t get her back to civilization.
And yet I do understand. What happened took place out there. She’d
broken Rockton’s rules and left the safety of the town. Her sanctuary had not betrayed her. All the months she’d been in that hole,
she’d held Rockton as a talisman.

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If only I could be there. If only I could get back there.
“I’ll speak to Eric,” I say.

“She needs medical care,” Anders says after I explain the situation.
“I am totally sympathetic to her situation, and I’ll support her coming back after she’s treated. But I am not a doctor.”
“What exactly is wrong with her?” I ask. “Besides malnutrition.”
He throws up his hands. “I have no idea. Because I’m not a doctor.”
Diana has been hovering on the edges of the discussion, everyone
too preoccupied to tell her to leave. She pipes in with “So what you’re
saying, basically, is that you don’t want to be responsible if she’s hurt
worse than she seems.”
He turns on her. “Yes, Diana. Exactly. You want to fault me for
that? Go ahead. But I will not be responsible for missing something
critical.”
“I’m no expert either,” she says. “But it seems to me there isn’t
anything critical. Not physically. What she needs most is care for
this.” She taps her head. “Which means keeping her calm and seeing
what happens. It’s not like we can ship her off to Whitehorse today
anyway. You guys didn’t find her comatose, barely alive. She’s not at
risk of dying tomorrow or the next day or even a month from now.”
Isabel shoos Diana off, politely enough. Diana doesn’t argue. She’s
past that, too, which is probably Isabel’s influence, convincing her that
being a pain in everyone’s ass is only going to— again—hurt her.
Once she’s gone, Isabel lowers her voice and says, “Diana has a
point. Nicole’s physical health is stable; her mental health is not.”
Dalton rubs his chin. “Any other circumstance, I would send her
south, but . . .”
“We’re a self- sustaining community,” I say. “With no room for
anyone suffering serious physical or mental issues, but making her
leave after what happened feels inhumane.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Thing is, though, I can bluster about the weather,
tell the council it might be weeks before I can fly out again, but that’s

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all. Nicole’s going to want a guarantee, probably for the rest of her
term. Which is not happening.”
Residents are promised a two-year stay, and they cannot leave
sooner than that. They may, however, stay up to five years, if they pull
their weight and don’t cause trouble.
“She’d settle for a year,” I say.
“Also not happening. The council won’t let her stay when it’ll be
months before she’s in any shape to earn her keep.”
“Leave this to me.”